"Look, Goober, okay, I'm not going back. Forget what I said. I guess that was just crazy talk."
Goober looked at him guardedly. "You sure?"
Jerry nodded. "I'm sure."
The Goober relaxed visibly, slowed his pace.
"Good, Jerry. For a minute there—"
"I know. It was crazy." But it isn't crazy. I'm going back. To Trinity.
"Nothing to be gained by going back. ."
"Right." Wrong. A lot to be gained but not sure what. His tooth was hurting now, killing him, and he felt blood gathering on his gums, the taste warm and sweet on his tongue. And his knee still hurt. He hurt all over, but a clean hurt.
"Summer's coming. We'll have a great summer. Running, swimming. ." The Goober's voice vibrated with excitement as he thought of good times coming.
Jerry knew what he had to do. Break off with the Goober, end their relationship. Gradually, over the course of the summer, so that when next September came and he returned to Trinity, the Goober wouldn't know about it. Or care. Because by then Jerry would be a stranger. Jerry felt rotten about that, his only friend becoming a stranger.
For a moment Jerry wavered, poised between decisions, overcome by a sadness, drenching him with — what? — loneliness, maybe. Longing for the peace of the Canadian countryside and his uncle and aunt and the Talking Church. Or maybe Monument High with Goober as his friend. Trying out for football, the snap of the ball, calling signals, the pass. . good-bye to that. For a while. He knew somehow he would make his way back to Canada. And especially to the Talking Church. And beyond that to something else. Something he could not even consider now. But first he had to return to Trinity.
"We'll have a great summer," Jerry said, hoping the words did not sound as false to Goober as they sounded to himself.
He ran. Through darkened streets, taking occasional walkers or strollers by surprise, his feet on the pavement keeping time to his beating heart.
He heard the sound when he was a half mile from his home. At first he thought the sound was behind him. Or ahead. And then realized it came from inside him. A sound like something wounded. Or crying. Or maybe sobbing. Him? Yes, him.
This little piggy went to market. .
When he was just a little kid, his mother used to recite the nursery rhyme to him, every night at bedtime. And later when he began running, he would run to the rhythm of songs he knew. And sometimes that old nursery rhyme.
And this little piggy stayed home.
Not wanting to think about Jerry Renault and the way he had betrayed him again tonight, groveling on the sidewalk, clutching his stomach in pain. Not wanting to think that he had done it again. And knowing, too, that Jerry was going back to Trinity. Pretending for Goober's sake that he wasn't, but going. And the Goober not wanting to go. He'd had enough of Trinity. Of being put to the test. Of betrayal. He'd break off from Jerry, a bit at a time this summer, little by little. Because, damn it, he did not want to go back to Trinity. Wouldn't. Couldn't. He didn't want to betray him again.
And he sang silently as he ran:
This little piggy cried wee, wee, wee, all the way home.
Wee, wee, wee. .
For Obie, at this moment, it was not Fair Day or Fear Day but Fool Day.
And Archie Costello was the Fool, being led now across the campus to the parking lot where the Water Game had been installed, Obie surveying the scene with a kind of satisfaction he had never known before. If only he still had Laurie and could share with her this beautiful moment and all the other beautiful moments to come: Archie as the Fool. Archie walked with his head held high, despite the Sign on the back of his white jersey, block letters spelling out KICK ME. The Fool was required to wear the Sign throughout the day and students understood that it was proper to kick the wearer. One of the traditions of Fair Day, a mild enough diversion allowed by the brothers. No one had yet kicked Archie. Ah, but the day was young, barely an hour old.
Obie watched at a discreet distance as Archie arrived at the Water Came. His arrival didn't cause a big stir; too much other activity was going on. The campus was thronged with parents and students and smaller children. Music blared over a loudspeaker, clashing with the tinny sound of a calliope. Squeals of laughter and delight came from the merry-go-round. Clerks dispensed amazing amounts of pizza and submarine sandwiches and soda pop. Booths with all kinds of merchandise, from handmade crafts to home-baked goods, did a thriving business. All profits for the Trinity School Fund. Thus, Archie Costello's drama was only a small part of the entire scene. But an important drama for most of the students at Trinity. Nothing their mothers or fathers or younger brothers or sisters knew about as they participated in the day's activities, but important to the Trinity student body.
Archie did not protest as he was directed to the Water Came chair. The arrangement was simple. The chair was situated above a pool of water. The price was one dollar for three balls. The balls were thrown at a bull's-eye target to the left of the chair. If the center of the target was hit by a ball, an unseen mechanism dropped the chair into the water, submerging the occupant. The occupant at this moment was Archie Costello. Neat and spotless in his chino pants and white jersey, the KICK ME sign hidden from view, Archie sat quietly, feet dangling, his Nikes almost touching the water. He waited patiently, looking at the crowd with cool, appraising eyes.
"Okay, okay, a dollar for three balls," the hawker called, juggling the balls as he talked. His face was sunburned, his scalp beneath his thinning gray hair also fiery red. His voice was hoarse, challenging.
Obie detached himself from his vantage point at the front steps and made his way closer to the game. He wanted full measure, wanted to hear the splash of water when Archie dropped, wanted to see him soaked and struggling in the pool.
"Let's go, let's go," the hawker urged.
Nobody went forward to buy the balls. The crowd hung back. While Archie sat, silent and unmoving, patient, waiting.
"What d'ya say, kids," the hawker yelled. "Not only do you dunk the victim, but you win a teddy bear for the girl friend. C'mon, kids, step right up. . "
Nobody stepped right up. Obie studied the gathering, puzzled, disappointed. He nudged John Consalvo, who stood beside him. Consalvo was a silent member of the Vigils, someone who never questioned a decision, always carried out orders.
"Here's a buck, Consalvo," Obie said, handing him a dollar bill. "Get in there and throw the balls. . "
"Not me," Consalvo said, backing away.
"Why not? It's fun time on Trinity campus. . "
Consalvo shook his head, his black-olive eyes shining with apprehension. "I'm not throwing any balls at Archie Costello."
"You don't throw the balls at him. You throw them at the target and Archie Costello gets dunked—"
Consalvo had backed away several feet now. Having achieved what he considered a safe distance, he said: "I'm not dunking any Archie Costello."
A chorus of shouts drew Obie's attention back to the scene. A sophomore by the name of Bracken had stepped up, paid his money, and taken the three balls. He turned to the crowd, flexing his muscles comically. The crowd responded, a chorus of cheers and catcalls. Obie added his voice to the vocal fray.
Bracken was one of the wise guys. Loved dirty jokes, sly pokes in the ribs of other kids, tripping people in the corridor. Always sneaky, though, then putting on an innocent act.
He faced Archie, holding one of the balls in the palm of his right hand. As if weighing it. He looked over his shoulder at the shouting crowd, and as he turned to Archie again, the volume of shouts and calls died down. The immediate area had suddenly become a pocket of stillness. Bracken studied Archie for what seemed a long time while Archie sat there imperviously, untouched by it all, looking merely curious, apparently wondering what Bracken was about to do. As if it had nothing to do with him, really.